


here or not here

by 75hearts



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Hurt No Comfort, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, martin's canonical self-destructive choices, unenthusiastic consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: “Come now, Martin, was it so terrible?” Peter must have done something, because he wasn’t on the other side of the room anymore; Martin could feel the cool hand rubbing his back with an almost painful gentleness. “I know you want Jon. But Jon’s not here, Martin, and that can be a delightfully lonely thing!”Tell him what he wants to hear,thought half of Martin Blackwood.This is a terrible idea,thought the other half.It’s going to destroy you, you know it will, he’s not eventryingto hide it or lie about it—“Fine,” he said, not lifting his head. “If you want to fuck me so bad, fine.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 7
Kudos: 96





	here or not here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kelardry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelardry/gifts).



Martin sighed and spun in his chair, leaning back until he could feel the edge of the desk pressing into his shoulders. What was he even doing here? 

_Well_ , something inside him asked, _what else could you be doing?_

And, he had to admit, it had a point. He had spent too many months by Jon’s bedside doing nothing to deny that; he had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do. It wasn’t exactly like he could _quit_. Martin wouldn’t be surprised if Jon was still getting paychecks, and the man’s _heart_ wasn’t beating. He could either be here, with Peter, making sure nobody else got hurt, or he could be in the Archives with the empty desks of Tim and Sasha and Jon. He was useless there; he didn’t have Basira’s coldly tactical mind or Melanie’s raw power. He was good enough at this: just do his job and Peter would protect the rest of them from… external threats, at least. 

So. It was--bad, yes. Working for a monster that fed off his loneliness was not exactly his dream job. But there were a lot of worse things out there and there wasn’t anything better, not for him, so he should just--work on getting used to it. 

A familiar pressure built up behind his eyes and he pressed his hands into them with an annoyed sigh. “What do you want, Peter.”

“Oh! Nothing, really. Just to check in on you, I suppose. How are you doing? Taking a break?”

“Something like that.” Martin let his hands fall and spun back to face the desk. “I’m doing... fine, I suppose? A bit tired?”

“You’ve been doing _wonderful_ work, Martin,” Peter said, clapping Martin on the shoulder. Something inside Martin twisted at that, though whether it was the compliment or just the touch--how _long_ had it been since he had been touched?--he didn’t know; before he could stop himself, he was leaning into it, skin craving the touch as though he was starving and Peter’s hands were a feast. Peter chuckled at that and Martin went a bright shade of red, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to move away.

-

They didn’t speak as the room filled with wet noises and heavy breathing, the slap of skin against skin. Didn’t even look at each other. Martin imagined Jon, wondered whether Peter was imagining someone too.

It didn’t matter. Each pair of eyes was shut, the lights turned off; neither of them was going to give Elias an easier time watching this than they had to. Martin’s fingers dug into Peter’s shoulders, his whole body pressing against Peter’s, searching for a comfort that would never come from Peter’s chilled skin. Every movement, every gasp, was impersonal, unfeeling. 

But it was what Martin had, now. His rhythm was hungry. Desperate. He screwed his eyes shut tighter, until colors shot through the blackness, and thought of Jon’s voice, Jon’s hands, Jon’s skin pockmarked with scars, Jon’s hair soft and shot through with gray — let himself imagine, if not believe, that it was _Jon_ whose cold, inhuman hands pulled hungrily at his hips —

— He came with a soft cry, shaking apart from the base of his spine, and just a couple moments later the whining pressure in his head dissipated, leaving him abruptly alone, still arching up into a touch that was no longer there.

He didn’t mention it the next day at work.

-

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Peter said, voice cheerful as ever, and when Martin glared, he hastened to continue. “Not that that’s a bad thing! Not at all. Isolating yourself willingly, well, that’s an _excellent_ sacrifice. But it makes it harder for me to keep an eye on your progress.”

“I thought keeping an eye on me was more of Elias’s thing,” Martin muttered, and Peter actually laughed.

“Quite right.” There was a silence, but Peter didn’t disappear, just leaned backwards. “But I’ve been thinking about you. It’s a common misconception, you know, that one has to be _alone_ to be _lonely_.” His face was the same as always: friendly, even _jovial_ , but there was nothing behind his washed-out eyes except an uncomfortable weight. “There’s simply no _need_ to deprive yourself like this, not while you’re still used to being around people. You’re just hurting yourself, you know. I thought our little sojourn might have taught you that much.”

Martin spluttered. “Are you--are you _propositioning_ me?”

“You didn’t seem so averse to the idea last week.”

“I was _drunk_ ,” Martin said helplessly, head falling into his hands. “Christ, I should’ve known you would pull something like this--”

“Come now, Martin, was it so terrible?” Peter must have done something, because he wasn’t on the other side of the room anymore; Martin could feel the cool hand rubbing his back with an almost painful gentleness. “I know you want Jon. But Jon’s not here, Martin, and that can be a delightfully lonely thing!”

 _Tell him what he wants to hear,_ thought half of Martin Blackwood. _This is a terrible idea,_ thought the other half. _It’s going to destroy you, you know it will, he’s not even_ trying _to hide it or lie about it—_

“Fine,” he said, not lifting his head. “If you want to fuck me so bad, fine.”

-

He wasn’t sure _when_ , exactly, he stopped getting anything out of it. Maybe he never had, not _really_ , but he was pretty sure he remembered it--meaning something, at least.

It was just… a thing he did sometimes, now. He takes notes and reads statements and does research and tries to convince his boss not to kill people and lays back and closes his eyes. Peter’s not _bad_ at sex--far from it, actually, though Martin would rather die than admit _that_ out loud--but it feels a little bit like something getting ripped out of him, every time.

Maybe that was the point. Had always been the point. It didn’t matter. At least he was keeping Peter busy far away from anyone else he might hurt, pointed firmly at a willing victim.

Christ, he sounded like Jon. Moping and claiming his self-destruction was selflessness. As though he were _noble_ for letting his boss fuck him.

It didn’t really matter. He was in too deep now to say no. Or--that wasn’t true, not really. He was pretty sure he could go back to being a regular archival assistant instead of _assistant to Peter Lukas_. He couldn’t quit the Institute, but he wasn’t entirely trapped. There would probably be consequences, but he wasn’t _physically unable_ to stop doing his job. Working under Elias had rather highlighted the distinctions.

...When had he started to think of it like that? When had fucking Peter Lukas turned from _bad decision_ into _part of his job_?

Not that the line between _job_ and _bad decision_ had ever been particularly distinct, here. 

-

He kissed Peter hard that night, hard and deep, until he was afraid that he might never again taste anything but saltwater and his own fear. The best part of it was always how much it hurt, the million tiny ways he adjusted his body and pushed forward so as to better twist the knife; shivering against skin too cold to be human, Martin held on as tight as he could to that terrible ache.

His eyes closed, body following a routine so well-trod as to be almost reflex; when they opened, there were tears on his cheeks, and Peter was gone.

-

He started feeling grateful, when he was left alone. _Safe_. 

It was stupid, really. He had been the one to initiate, the… the first time. And since then, it wasn’t as if Peter had done anything to him that he hadn’t agreed to.

That didn’t stop it from hurting, didn’t stop the roiling disgust in his gut, the shame that crept up his throat, the feeling of hands all over him. He took long showers, the way he had after Prentiss, trying to wash off the feeling of sticky, creeping filth. It hadn’t helped then. Didn’t help now either, really. But it was something to do.

The Institute was no help. The feeling of being watched, being seen--he didn’t want anyone to know him like this. Didn’t want the other employees to find out about what exactly his arrangement with Peter involved. Didn’t want Peter in the room, watching him in the way that meant Peter was mentally undressing him. And so it felt... good, to be alone. Not entirely calming, but certainly less miserable than the alternative. Tim’s voice echoed in his head, mocking him for having ever had such high aspirations as _happiness_. At least this was a quieter fear. A dull ache, almost gentle, not the terrible spike of _ohgodnotnowplease_ that made him flinch whenever he heard heavy footsteps or felt fog roll into his head. Not even the ball of anxiety that came with trying to remember how to talk to people who weren’t Peter, the way it twisted into terror when he tried to talk to people outside the Archives staff, the vague horror that settled in his bones when he realized all over again that he _couldn’t_ , not really. 

This, he figured, was the point. Making him crave loneliness instead of hating it. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t going to stop him; if the loneliness didn’t seem so bad anymore, if it tasted of relief, so much the better. He had walked into this with eyes wide open, knowing himself to be not the supplicant but the sacrifice. Perhaps he could thank Peter as he bled out on the altar: _well, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been?_

-

It would have been remarkable, once. Martin knew this. Both that he was doing this and that it didn’t hurt anymore. Peter squeezed his cock and Martin let him, neither leaning into the touch nor flinching away. Just there. It didn’t mean anything anymore, felt—distant. As though Martin was alone in a pale fog while somewhere, far away, two human-shaped bodies moved in their relentlessly human ways. It would have been remarkable how much he did not feel much of anything. How much he still did not feel when Peter leaned over to say, with a wink and a crude chuckle, “Bet your Archivist never did _this_ for you.” He would’ve been angry at that, before. Or perhaps tears would have sprung to his eyes, putting a shake in his voice and a flinch in his shoulders. Instead he just sighed. It was easier, he decided, like this. Not feeling much of anything. Or--no, that wasn’t quite right, he could feel it just fine. His body reacted like it always did, nerve endings firing. The _sensation_ was there. But he didn’t feel _about_ it. It was just… a thing his body was doing. As significant as having a wank, or maybe even less. His cock twitched and dribbled in Peter’s hands. He didn’t imagine Jon anymore. 

“You really are remarkable,” Peter said when Martin came, instead of leaving like he usually did. His beard was scratchy against Martin’s neck. Jon didn’t have a beard. Neither had Tim, despite a perpetual 5-o-clock shadow. “You’ve come a long way, surpassing all expectations, and I really do hope you keep surprising us.”

Martin was pretty sure that that was the sort of thing he would have cared about, but he didn’t, not really. He cleaned himself up wordlessly and tugged the blankets around his shoulders, eyes closing. 

He didn’t remember Peter leaving, but he woke up the next morning alone. It wasn’t bad, being alone. It was quiet. Almost painless. 

(It would be, some morbid part of him decided, a decent enough way to die.)

-

He had expected, somehow, that everything would change if Jon woke up. 

It didn’t. Some things changed. The tape recorders, mostly; they had collected in Jon’s hospital room, and now they were back to appearing around the institute, whirring quietly. It was disconcerting at first, but once Martin got used to them again he decided he quite liked them. They listened without saying a word or doing anything, every conversation inherently one-sided. He wasn’t alone when they were in the room, but he didn’t have to stumble through a couple sentences of small talk and then a half-hearted excuse. Had to read a statement now and then, but that wasn’t so bad, because it was—directed. A clear end, words written for him. And besides, Jon might listen to those. 

His feelings had changed, too, gone rusty from disuse and then sputtering back to life alongside Jon’s body. It was funny; he had told himself that he was keeping Peter from hurting anybody else, but he hadn’t actually cared about that, just had a vague sense that he _should_ care. 

He cared now. It was exhausting, caring. Had he really used to care this much _all the time_?

Other things didn’t change. He scribbled notes in the margins of the files Peter gave him, did dutiful research. Drank altogether too many cups of tea. Still didn’t feel much of anything beyond the sudden realization that he wanted Jon to be safe. Stayed alone, except when Peter wanted to see him. 

He didn’t particularly care what he did, anymore. Peter might as well have been a table, inert and useful mostly for holding papers, for all the emotions he aroused in Martin. Except, no, that wasn’t quite true, because Jon had once unleashed a monster that was not Sasha by breaking a table and Martin had been terrified, whereas he was pretty sure that the strongest feeling he could manage for Peter Lukas in any situation was closer to mild annoyance. 

It was almost funny how proud Peter Lukas was of that. Just a few months ago he would’ve leaned into the praise like a dying plant reaching for any glimmer of light. Now it was just… noise. It sounded exactly like everything else Peter Lukas said. He always sounded the same: cheerful, amiable. Sometimes the sounds coalesced into coherence, words becoming sentences becoming narrative, but usually they didn’t. Peter talked while Martin did paperwork, made small-talk or said horrible things that might have hurt once or gave additional information about a statement, and it didn’t really matter. Underneath the friendly tone, there was nothing and no-one. It didn’t matter where Peter was or what he was doing; Martin was alone.

-

It had been a long day; Martin had half a headache from staring at his computer screen. Then again, Martin couldn't think of the last time he had had a _short_ day. Used to be Sasha did all this while he went over old papers, but that had been a long time ago. The buzzing in his head increased, and he realized that it was familiar, more like fog than static; Martin gave a sigh that was barely more than an exhale. “What do you want?”

“You, of course,” came Peter’s answer, as high-spirited as ever, and there was a sudden tug on Martin’s arm. Martin let himself be led, stepping sideways with Peter into the strange hazy place that was not quite the world and not quite the Lonely, walking to the side room that Peter had transformed into quite a nice bedroom. It almost felt spacious despite the size of the bed.

“How do you want me, then?” Martin sat on the bed, tugging off his sweater. The air left goosebumps on his arms that Peter’s calloused fingertips didn’t assuage. 

“Your ass today, I think,” Peter said, leaning back against a pillow. “Mm. On top of me?”

“Fine,” Martin sighed. “Just let me get the lights.” It wasn’t even entirely for Elias, at this point; there was a solid chance he _couldn’t_ see them here. It was just… what happened next. Martin’s pants fell to the floor and he glanced over, checking that Peter had grabbed the lube, before flicking the light switch and climbing clumsily on top of him. “Get me ready, then.”

Peter’s fingers were wet and cold; Martin’s head fell back and he gasped involuntarily as they entered him. Once he got past the initial moment of shock, the stretch wasn’t unpleasant, and — _fuck_ — the Lonely may have taken his emotions but it granted no such numbness to his prostate. He was half-hard when he pulled himself off. “Okay,” he said, and all at once one of Peter’s hands landed on his shoulders, pulling him down, while the other fumbled to line them up. 

“ _There_ ,” Peter groaned, voice radiating such satisfaction that Martin almost rolled his eyes beneath their lids. He rolled his hips instead, listening to the sounds Peter made beneath him, and laid his hands on Peter’s chest. He knew by now that Peter had a heartbeat, but it somehow still surprised him to feel it. Such a strikingly human thing seemed out-of-place here. 

Peter’s moans were loud and mostly genuine. Martin didn’t moan at all, but his breathing grew hard, as though he were running, and it was punctuated by the occasional sharp inhale. It wasn’t bad. Wasn’t really good, either, really, just… was. 

Peter came first, still inside Martin when he shouted, fingers digging into the other man’s skin. Martin let himself go boneless, but he waited a moment for Peter to be done before slumping over and rolling off. “Should I get myself off now or d’you want to?” He was still breathy, but his tone was somewhere in the realm of weary resignation. 

Peter, on the other hand, seemed even more cheerful than usual. “You can take care of yourself,” he said brightly, and this time Martin _did_ roll his eyes as he let his hand drift between his thighs and jerk himself over the edge to completion, muscles relaxing as the stink of sex permeated the room. He took a moment to breathe before he rolled over, opening his eyes at last to look at Peter. They had partially adjusted to the dark; he could see the gray outline of another body next to him, but not much more. 

His voice was soft when he spoke. “You really believe the Extinction is going to be the… the end of the world?”

“I do,” Peter said, voice something resembling earnest as his hands trailed up Martin’s spine. _His_ eyes were still shut. “And I also think I know what we need to do to stop it. You, Martin? You’re perfect.”

Martin didn’t have to feel anything at all to know that he was lying.


End file.
